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Jarret
Jarret glanced up as three zombies shuffled by with bloodstained faces and ratty clothes. He sat in the driver’s seat of his new car—his deep cherry red, two-year-old Chrysler 300. He hung his legs out and smoked with his left hand, being careful not to drop ashes in the interior. He’d insisted the dealer detail the thing before he drove it off the lot yesterday. And he intended to keep that new car look and smell for as long as possible.
The guests had been trickling in for the past hour. He hadn’t recognized half of them in their costumes: pirates, superheroes, hippies, and freaks. Most of the guys, though, had come up to him and his new car. He’d even let Dominic, Foster, and Leo sit in it for a few seconds.
Caitlyn’s father, Mr. Summer, had spent the most time admiring it, him in a formal suit and hat, looking like a gangster. “Hey there, Jarret, she’s a beauty,” he’d said. Then he talked cars for at least twenty minutes while the sun crept lower in the sky and the party filled up. His vast knowledge of cars and engines made Jarret feel stupid a time or two, so Jarret made a personal commitment to learn everything he could about engines.
After watching Mr. Summer walk away, Jarret closed and locked his car. Then he strode toward the party and found himself face to face with four kids standing side by side: a reaper, a judge, an angel, and a devil.
“Nice costumes.” He nodded and tried going around, but they sidestepped, blocking him.
He made eye contact with the judge then tried squeezing between the judge and angel, but they shifted.
“You can’t avoid us,” the reaper said, peering through dark eyes.
“Oh yeah I can.” Jarret glanced to either side, making sure Papa didn’t see, and drew his sword. “Outta my way.”
The reaper stepped up to his blade. “All ways lead to me. I’m Death.” He gestured toward the others. “May I introduce Judgment, Heaven, and Hell?”
“Nice.” Jarret appraised their costumes, and they let him pass.
On the gravel path between the stables and the steps of the veranda, Zoe stood with a group of prissy girls from school. One wore a red hooded cape, another looked like Mary Poppins, and the other two were flappers. They all held cups of punch, threw flirty glances, and giggled.
Jarret came up behind Zoe, pushed her silky hair out of the way and kissed her neck.
She pulled him to her side. “Are you done showing off your car?”
“For now.”
“Hi, Jarret,” the other girls each said. He gave them nods and looked them over. No girl held a candle to Zoe with her dark eyes, jet-black hair, slim figure, and expensive dress—which reminded him . . .
He took Zoe’s hand and whispered in her ear. “I have something for you.” He tugged her hand, wanting to lead her to the house. He’d bought her earrings that matched her dress, but he’d left them in his room.
Zoe twisted her arm as if to break his hold. “Where are we going?”
“In the house.”
“Your father said no one’s allowed inside.”
“It’s my house. If I wanna go inside, I’ll go inside. And you’re with me, so come on.” He tugged her more forcefully, and she came.
He led her through the veranda and the long family room, heading for the stairs. As he stepped into the great room, the front door creaked open. Squeezing Zoe’s hand, he darted to the corner where they wouldn’t be seen down the long hallway that led to the foyer.
Boots scraped the floor.
“Come on,” he whispered, dragging Zoe back the way they’d come. He ducked into the recreation room and flipped the lights on. “It’s Papa. He’s probably getting something from his office. We’ll wait here.”
“What if he comes this way?” Worry showed in her pretty brown eyes.
It annoyed him that she didn’t trust him. “We’re playing pool. Why should he care?” He went for the cue rack on the wall. “But he won’t come this way, so we’ll hang out here till he goes back outside.”
“Okay.” She took a deep breath, watching as he set the triangle rack on the table.
The spark she’d had in her eyes in the beginning of their relationship had faded. He wanted it back. It had faded the day she’d told him she was pregnant. With that threat gone, she ought to have her spark back. Why didn’t she?
He racked the few balls on the table that he could reach. “Something bothering you?”
She sauntered around the pool table carelessly reaching into pockets, pulling out balls, and letting them roll to no particular place on the table. “Actually . . . I want to talk to you.”
“Why’s that?” He hated those words. They made his insides bristle.
She gazed at the table, still fishing balls from the pockets.
Leaning, he snatched as many balls as he could reach and dropped them into the rack. “You look serious. Are you breaking up with me?”
“Breaking up with— No.” She let the striped ball in her hand fall back into a pocket and met his gaze.
He returned his attention to the balls in the rack, putting them in order. Girls were hard to read. She seemed serious, as if something were really wrong. But everything was perfect about their relationship now. What could she have a problem with? “Wanna roll me that striped ball in the pocket?”
After a brief look of confusion, she dipped her hand back into the pocket and rolled the ball to him. “I didn’t do it. And I don’t want to.” She spoke without looking at him then pressed her lips together and folded her arms.
He hung the rack on the wall and selected a pool cue. Lining up the break, he said, “Didn’t do what?”
She turned away and leaned her velvety black skirt against the pool table.
He drew his arm back and was in the middle of making the break when she answered.
“I’m still pregnant.”
He jerked. The cue slid, and the cue ball popped up. “Wow! What the—Are you out of your mind?” He tossed the cue stick onto the table. “What are you waiting for? You gonna wait until you start showing? Or . . . kids at school start noticing?” He sneered. “Gonna wait till your parents figure it out?”
Still leaning against the pool table, head down, she tensed her folded arms.
With a deep breath, he tried to subdue his anger. He approached her slowly, determined to speak gently. Persuasion would work better than threats, in her case anyway. He stroked her silky hair where it fell over her shoulder, then lifted her chin and gazed into her eyes with compassion.
“Hey, we’re too young for a baby. You know you don’t have to be pregnant if you don’t want to be.”
She huffed and turned away.
“Come on,” he whined. “What do you want me to say? I mean, what’re you thinking? Is it the money? I don’t care how much it is. I’ll pay for it.”
Still not facing him, she laughed. “Oh, my poor little rich boy. It’s all about the money.”
His jaw tensed. What did she want him to say? What did she want him to do? She was being unreasonable. Why couldn’t she at least look at him and talk about it?
He touched her chin and tried to turn her face, but she resisted. “There’s nothing for you to be afraid of.”
“Easy for you to say.” She pushed off the pool table and sauntered to the far corner of the room, keeping her back to him as she spoke. “You act like it’s nothing. Don’t you understand what it means when I say I’m pregnant?”
He sneered. “Of course. I’m not stupid. Don’t you understand it’s easy to take care of? You had health class and Sex Ed. You should know.”
She laughed again, glancing at him over her shoulder. “Just like that, huh?”
“That’s right. Just like that.”
Boots scuffed outside the recreation room the split-second before Papa spoke. “Jarret?”
Jarret swallowed his Adam’s apple, hoping his voice hadn’t traveled, trying to remember exactly what he’d said, and wondering if Papa could’ve caught the gist of their conversation. “Yeah, what?” He picked up the cue stick and reached for the cue ball.
“The shindig’s outside.” Papa leaned against the doorframe, tugged the rim of his cowboy hat, and gave Zoe a nod.
“Hello, Mr. West.” She had composed herself enough to give him a pleasant smile. Without a glance in Jarret’s direction, she tossed her hair over her shoulder and left the room, Papa sliding out of her way.
“Everything okay?” Papa said.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Jarret tossed the cue stick onto the table and headed for the door.
He breezed through the veranda to get outside. The evening air chilled the sweat he’d worked up in the heat of the moment, arguing with Zoe. He tugged his shirt to cool off then fished his cigarettes from a vest pocket.
Before he could light up, Keefe, dressed in the long brown robe of a medieval monk, strolled up to him. “Hey, Jarret.”
Fortunately, the rough cowl and hood concealed his cropped head so that Jarret could look at him. He could almost picture him with long hair pulled back in a ponytail. Jarret didn’t answer though. He lit up and took a long drag off the cigarette, turning his attention to Zoe as she sauntered to her girlfriends.
She was so slim, so gorgeous. Did she really want to lose her figure being pregnant?
“How’s it going?” Keefe stepped close.
Jarret shook his head and started walking. “I’m not talking to you. I don’t even know you.”
Keefe followed, walking in step. “Of course you know me. I’m still me. My hair’s just shorter. Get over it already. It’s not a big deal.”
Jarret smirked, looking his twin up and down. Keefe knew how he felt about it. It was a big deal. And it wasn’t just the hair. Keefe was different.
“Jarret, knock it off. You haven’t talked to me since I’ve been back. Don’t you think that’s long enough? I got you the shirt.”
Picking up his pace and puffing on his cigarette, Jarret headed for the band.
Keefe stepped in front of him, forcing him to stop. “All right, then . . .” Keefe snatched the black gloves that hung from Jarret’s belt.
Jarret shoved Keefe and moved to step around him . . . when a black leather glove struck his cheek.
“I challenge you to a duel.”
Jarret snickered then glanced to either side to see who’d witnessed the slap. The flapper girls with Zoe looked directly at him. He’d have to accept. “A duel, huh? Yeah, I’ll take your challenge. When I win, you have to leave me alone.”
“Okay. And if I win, you have to talk to me again.”
“You never win. I always win.” Keefe was good, but Jarret had always been better. He couldn’t remember the last time Keefe had beat him at fencing.
“We’ll see. I’ll go get a sword.” Keefe took off.
A short time later, Jarret and Keefe, carrying fencing masks and wearing swords in their belts, strode across the front lawn out past the band and the dance floor. The setting sun had turned the sky a moody pink that made for a nice backdrop and reflected on their blades. They stopped a good distance between the band and the edge of the woods.
Jarret tossed his musketeer hat.
Keefe pushed back his cowl.
They both donned facemasks. Keefe assumed the standard en garde position, standing sideways, right hand leading.
Jarret remained intentionally loose and casual. He engaged his brother’s blade by simply dragging his own across it, grinning as he did so.
Keefe gave a nod.
Jarret stepped back and glanced away, feigning a lack of enthusiasm. Then he lunged. Keefe was not fooled. He parried with skill. The second their swords clashed, a crowd gathered.
Knowing he could end this fight within a matter of minutes, if he wanted to, Jarret lunged again before Keefe could attack. Keefe beat back his sword with a double strike and circled Jarret as he recovered.
Turning to keep his twin before him, Jarret grinned. Keefe was using his tactics. He had used this move countless times, getting his opponent off balance and following with a series of blows.
Adrenaline surging, Jarret advanced, lunged, and swung his blade low. Keefe jumped and stumbled back. With a laugh, Jarret continued his advance, his attack. Keefe parried and scuttled backward.
Their blades became a flurry of movement, strikes and parries, Jarret confident he had the upper hand. They inched, they lunged through the yard, one way then another, Jarret only at times aware of the onlookers that surrounded them.
Their blades crossed. “I’m going to end this now,” Jarret said and shoved Keefe back. Then he attacked with all the rage he had within, all the anger at the loss of control over his life. Keefe parried but Jarret kept coming.
Then something impossible happened.
Keefe’s riposte came so quick it caught Jarret by surprise, and he ended up parrying with the end of his blade instead of the lower third where he could keep control of it. The sword slipped from his hand.
“Touché.” Chest heaving, Keefe tapped his blade to Jarret’s ribs.
Keefe won?
Anger surged through Jarret. He whipped his mask aside and thrust his palms into Keefe’s chest. Keefe fell to the ground. Jarret jumped on him and wrestled to keep him from getting up. Jarret drew back a fist and swung before he realized that Keefe still held his sword . . . and that he was about to make contact with the hilt.
Pain shot from his knuckles to his wrist. He rolled off his brother, clutched his hand, and groaned.
Keefe laughed and sat up. He tossed his sword aside and peeled the facemask off. “That was a stupid thing to do.”
“Yeah.” Jarret pushed himself up, breathing hard, his fist aching. “It hurts like mad. I can’t believe you beat me.”
“I’m sure you let me win.” Keefe smiled. “You miss talking to me.” He stood and reached a hand down.
At first Jarret shot hate through his eyes, but then he allowed himself to smile. Shaking out his right hand, he took Keefe’s outstretched hand with his left and got to his feet. “So, what do you want to talk about so badly?”
Keefe threw his arm around Jarret’s shoulders. “Let’s take a walk.” Leaving their swords where they lay, they headed for a path in the woods.